Turnabout
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: Dean's sometimes a little insecure about his place in Sam's life. Especially when old Stanford buddies show up. And then things go wrong. Set around Season 1.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own the boys.

Thanks to Cheryl for the beta on this.

**Author's Note: **This story is for PutMoneyInThyPurse, who asked for some gratuitous hurt Dean. Enjoy!

I probably won't have enough free time to reply to reviews for the next couple of days, but I appreciate them all. Happy New Year, everyone. :-)

**Summary:** Dean's sometimes a little insecure about his place in Sam's life. Especially when old Stanford buddies show up. And then things go wrong. Set around Season 1.

* * *

**Turnabout**

Dean's not an idiot.

That's the problem.

If he were an idiot, he might actually be able to fool himself into thinking he doesn't _care _that he's fallen in Sam's eyes.

Dean remembers, years ago, when Sam was in high school, he had a way of looking at Dean like he'd hung the sun and moon and stars. It was that look, the warm, almost childlike affection, that made Dean push himself to finish every job without civilian casualties.

Oh, Dean would have done his best anyway; saving people was what they did and it kind of defeated the purpose if you killed them. But he would have tried just a _little _less hard if his only motivation had been his own conscience and not the knowledge that he would have to go home, look Sam in the eye and confess that he'd killed an innocent person.

Dean's always been doing his best to be what Sam needs him to be. Someone Sam can trust. Someone Sam can respect.

Someone Sam _wants _to respect.

Lately, he's not so sure he's been managing it.

He knows it's stupid to be worried about being replaced by Sam's college buddies when Dean's known Sam all his life, when Dean was the one who soothed hurts and wrapped birthday presents and cheered for the kid's first kiss. He's never felt threatened by Sam's friends before.

But Sam's friends before Stanford were people he knew for a few weeks, a couple of months if they were lucky. They weren't people who asked him if he still had the scar from that soccer match against CalTech or sat reminiscing with him about the weekend they spent at that _sweet _beach house Tony's dad let them borrow that time in sophomore year.

And it _really _shouldn't mean anything when Sam blows off Dean's offer of an evening shooting pool to go hang out with the guy who introduced himself to Dean as _Chris from freshman English_.

Sam and Dean spend every _other _evening together, after all. And every morning. And most of every _day_. And it's not like Dean hasn't abandoned _Sam_ when he's found girls who were hot and willing, or encouraged him to do the same.

But this is different.

This isn't a girl Sam's going to spend a night with and forget. (Or, being Sam, a girl he's going to take to dinner, kiss chastely and respectfully at the door, and then remember her name for the rest of his life.)

This is a legitimate _friend_.

This is a legitimate friend who's a college boy, who can probably talk to Sam about art and computers and whatever geeky stuff it is kids talk about at Stanford. This is a friend who's probably _so _much better company than Sam's high-school-dropout older brother.

Dean sighs heavily, downing his shot and indicating that he wants another.

Sam's back by the time he stumbles into their motel room dead drunk. Sam's back and Sam's _pissed_.

"Tell me you didn't drive like that," Sam growls, and there's something in his voice that reminds Dean of their Dad and tells him that if Sam ever gets his crap together enough to train and put on some more muscle and not get dewy-eyed at the thought of violence, he's going to be a seriously scary hunter.

"Didn't drive like that," Dean slurs. He doesn't want to disagree with Sam when he's in this mood.

"Say it again and _look at me_ when you do."

"Made eight hundred dollars," Dean says, showing Sam the wad of bills. "Guys were pissed off, but I got away."

"You hustled? _Alone?_"

Dean feels a flare of indignation. He's the older brother here. _He's _the one who's been hunting for the last four years. Hunting solo for three of them. Who does Sam think was around to snark at Dean about his blood alcohol level and watch his back while Sam was busy making eyes at the blonde?

Sam's face shutters off, and Dean realizes he said the last sentence aloud.

He tries to find the words to fix it, to apologize, to tell Sam he didn't mean it like _that_, but he's too drunk and Sam's not exactly receptive. He winds up collapsing on his bed and deciding he'll deal with it in the morning.

In the morning he's nursing a killer hangover and Dean _knew _there was a reason you're not supposed to drink on the job. He just wishes he'd remembered it last night while he was getting hammered. Sam, of course, isn't sympathetic. He hands Dean some Tylenol, tells him not to be a freaking moron, and bangs the door when he goes to get coffee. Dean's considering killing him as soon as he can see straight again, but the coffee is hot and bitter and exactly what Dean needs, so maybe Sam can live to see another day.

"How was last night?" Dean asks as he lets it burn his tongue.

"Good," Sam says, glancing at Dean over the top of his laptop. "Might hang out with Chris again tomorrow morning if we can get the job done tonight. There's a book reading downtown at ten."

Sam doesn't ask if Dean wants to join them. The coffee is suddenly too bitter.

"Well," Dean says, burying any remarks he feels inclined to make behind a mask of Winchester calmness, "we'd better get a move on, then. Daylight's wasting."

There isn't much to do today. Just a couple of house visits to confirm what they already know – that the ghost is that of Josaiah Watts, who was buried in the town cemetery in 1876 and has been killing one victim every ten years to the day. Dean lets Sam handle it, content to stand back and watch people's pathetic attempts to resist the puppy-dog eyes.

When Sam shoots him a tiny, triumphant smile afterwards, Dean can't help smiling back.

His good mood dissipates at lunchtime, when Sam spends half of it on the phone with Chris exchanging notes about the book they're going to hear read tomorrow. He hasn't bothered to tell Dean even the _name _of the book, but apparently he and Chris just _have _to discuss the transcendentalism in the representation of the neo-modern ethos. (Well, OK, they weren't discussing _that_, but they were discussing something equally boring. Dean couldn't be bothered to listen. Sue him.)

That evening, when Sam mentions to him how awesome he expects the book reading to be, Dean snaps, "Great, you can tell me all about it tomorrow."

Sam looks startled. "Aren't you coming?"

Dean thinks he could be forgiven for fratricide right then. "I don't plan to, seeing as how nobody _asked_ me to."

"But – I thought – I meant –"

"Save it," Dean says, rolling his eyes and thrusting the weapons duffel into Sam's arms. "Make sure everything's oiled and working. We're leaving in an hour."

"Shouldn't we check the records for –"

"It's a straightforward salt-and-burn, Sam," Dean growls. "We're leaving in an hour. Unless you have any book readings you need to be at."

"Jerk," Sam mutters, opening the duffel and bending to his task.

He stiffens when Dean doesn't respond. Dean holds out for a full half-hour – or, fine, twenty minutes – Christ, OK, about three seconds – before he says, "Bitch."

It's an uneasy truce. But it'll do.

They leave on schedule, but it's definitely not a straightforward job. Dean's on shotgun-duty while Sam digs the grave. Josaiah Watts doesn't want to die, and he makes his point by flinging Dean away from the grave and back into a headstone. Dean feels a sudden sharp pain and his world goes foggy around the edges.

He manages to stagger to his feet, because he's supposed to be watching Sam's back and it'll take more than a knock on the head to make Dean give that up.

Sam's looking at him in concern, but Dean indicates that he should keep digging. Sam doesn't look happy, but he knows as well as Dean does that the best way to keep the ghost from roughing them up is to get rid of it as soon as possible. He digs hard and fast. Dean's ready with the shotgun, firing as soon as there's a sign of anything.

Sam jumps out of the grave. He pours the gas, Dean handles the salt, and then Sam drops the lighted match.

For a few minutes it seems like they'll pull it off.

Then there's a light out by the road.

Sam and Dean exchange a glance and split up by mutual agreement. It might be cops. It might be teenagers looking for a place to make out. Either way, it's best if they're not together. That way, even if one of them _is _caught and hauled to the police station, the other one can bail him out.

Dean sees a couple of men get out. It's Dean they go after, and there's a moment of relief because the idea of Sam behind bars, even if it's just until they let Dean post bail in the morning, is just _wrong_.

He glimpses their faces as they run past the still-burning grave.

_Crap._

It's the men he hustled last night.

Normally Dean would be able to take them – two civilians, come _on_, normally even _Sam _would be able to take them – but his head's still throbbing and his vision isn't quite clear and they catch him.

Turns out those two barflies pack a pretty solid punch.

And they're apparently used to getting their punches in _quickly_, because it isn't more than a minute after they catch up to him that Dean's on his knees in the dirt, panting, tasting blood, head spinning, lungs burning enough to make him think he's maybe cracked a rib.

_Anytime, Sam_, Dean thinks.

As though on cue, Dean hears, "Let him go."

Sam doesn't sound anything like he did in high school. He doesn't sound like he could grow up to be a badass hunter, either. He sounds like he _is _a badass hunter who's in the final stages of being epically pissed off.

"Oh, yeah?" one of the guys snorts. "Or what?"

He shoves Dean back. Dean tries to stay upright but a punch sends him sprawling. He feels something nudge his ribs.

"Kick him," Sam's voice comes, even more pissed off now, "and I'll break your leg."

Wow. Sammy really does sound like Dad.

Apparently the idiot thinks it's a good idea to challenge a Winchester, because Dean feels the kick hard and sharp in his solar plexus. He curls in on himself, wheezing.

He manages to keep his eyes open, though.

He's glad he does, because Sam's not scary. Scary does not even _begin _to describe what Sam is. _Terrifying _doesn't begin to describe what Sam is.

He hauls one guy up by the front of his shirt and flings him – literally _flings _him, the way hunters get flung by spirits – away. Terrifying or not, he's Sam, so instead of cracking his head on a gravestone the guy finds himself face first in the soft dirt of a newly-dug grave.

Not dangerous, but, judging by the guy's horrified scream, apparently it's creepy.

The other guy, the one who kicked Dean, isn't as lucky. Sam lays him down with an uppercut to the jaw and then pulls his gun. He clearly plans to kneecap the guy.

"Sam," Dean says, because this isn't Sam, Sam isn't the person who blows out people's knees, and Dean's damned if he's going to let Sam be that person just because Dean wasn't smart enough to pick his opponents right.

Sam sighs and puts his gun away.

"Stay put," he warns the guy as he steps over him. "I see you anywhere near my brother again and the next time I come after you I'll make sure he's _not _there to stop me from pulling the trigger. And maybe I'll be aiming for a different part of your body."

Dean laughs, even though it makes his ribs hurt.

Sam's not like Dad at all. Dad would never have made time for the small talk with the hooligan.

Sam's just _awesome_.

He drops to his knees next to Dean. "Think you can stand?"

"There a choice?" Dean grunts.

"It's not like I _want _to carry your ass, but if you're going to make anything worse by walking…"

"Like you could ever carry me, Samantha."

"Looked in a mirror lately, Dean? You're barely tall enough to be allowed on those amusement park rides with the height restrictions."

"Shut up."

Sam's fingers brush his cheek. "Seriously, man. It's not that far. If we get back to the motel room and I discover you've hurt yourself worse trying to be macho, I'm going to be pissed."

"I can walk," Dean says, hoping like hell that's true. He _really_ doesn't want to test how much Sam can be like Dad.

Sam heaves him up easily, and _here's _a difference between Sam now and the kid he was. He's taking Dean's weight with no trouble at all, Dean's arm around his shoulders, so all Dean has to do is focus on putting one foot in front of the other as he guides them back to the Impala.

"You know those guys?" he asks as he eases Dean into the passenger seat.

Dean winces. This isn't going to be pretty, but Sam'll worry it out of him eventually so he might as well come clean now. "Guys I hustled last night."

"Oh."

The door shuts. Sam gets in the driver's seat.

There's a couple of minutes of silence. Dean breaks it before it can get oppressive.

"Dude, you think I'm an idiot for hustling alone. Just say it."

Sam shakes his head. "Nah. It would be mean to yell at you when you're hurt. Besides, you'd probably forget most of it. I'm saving it for when you're feeling better."

"That's my boy," Dean mutters without much enthusiasm.

It's a long drive back. Dean starts out sitting respectably in the shotgun seat (or as respectably as he can considering it's the _shotgun seat_) but his head is pounding and everything hurts and eventually he just gives in and leans on Sam's shoulder. Being that big has to be useful for _something_, right?

He's half-asleep by the time they get back to the motel. Sam gets him out of the car, and it's _so _tempting to just pretend to be all the way asleep and let Sam carry him in. But Dean has _some _dignity left and he wants to preserve as much as he can. He walks, with Sam's support.

Sam's quick and efficient, locking the car, getting them inside, and locking the door. The first aid kit is open and waiting on the bedside table, because Sam is anal that way, and for once Dean is not going to complain.

He fetches the pillows from his bed and piles them up with Dean's so Dean has support to sit upright.

The patching up hurts. Sam's being as gentle as he can, and for Sam that means that his triaging fingers are so light Dean barely even feels them as they skim down his chest and over his arms. Not even Sam's gentleness can keep peroxide from stinging, and having cuts sewn up is a miserable experience no matter _who _is holding the needle.

Dean refuses pills. He doesn't want to be totally out of it, just in case those sons of bitches track them down and Sam needs him. He's not _too _worried about that eventuality – Sam seems to have put the fear of God, or at least the fear of Winchester, into them and he can't imagine that they'll want to meet him again in a hurry. But you never know.

For a moment Sam looks like he'll argue. Then he shrugs and nods.

Dean's prepared for a restless, pain-filled night. That's what refusing pills meant with Dad, on the occasions when he didn't just force Dean to take them anyway.

The bed shifts as Sam sits back down on the edge after repacking the first aid kit.

"You can sleep," he says. "I'll keep an eye on you."

Dean doesn't plan to sleep, because _yeah right_, but he shuts my eyes, mainly to head off any attempts at a Sam-lecture about how stupid it was to hustle pool without backup. Something heavy lands on his head. He knows it's Sam's hand. He starts to make a face, but it feels so relaxing when careful fingers run through his hair that he forgets to shove Sam off.

Dean wakes up a few hours later.

Sam's not by the bed.

He's in the room, though. Dean can hear him on the phone.

"No, I can't, man," he's saying. "Dean got pretty banged up in a bar fight last night. I can't leave him."

For a moment Dean considers pretending he's still asleep, but Sam's already noticed the change in his breathing and Dean hears his footsteps approaching before Sam's fingers brush his forehead.

Dean opens his eyes. There's no point pretending.

Sam smiles at him, bright and happy.

Then, in response to whatever the person on the phone said, he says, "No, really, Chris. I need to stay with Dean. You guys go and have a good time, yeah?" He ends the call and turns to Dean. "Why are you awake? Not enough rest, dude. How do you feel?"

He _feels _like in addition to being a high-school dropout he's now a high school dropout that Sam needs to babysit when he'd rather be hanging out with his friends. And that's just not fair to Sam. Sam deserves to have a few hours with a friend, with _anyone _who isn't a constant reminder of their stupid life and everything Sam's had to give up to live it.

"You should go," Dean says, and if it doesn't come out as light as he intended, he still thinks he deserves points for trying. "To the book reading. You should go."

Sam rolls his eyes and fiddles with Dean's blanket, smoothing it over his chest. "It's fine."

"No, it's not," Dean says. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I want you to have fun with your friends. You should go."

Sam's eyes are inscrutable. "You really mean that?"

"Yeah," Dean gets out. It'll hurt if Sam ditches him to go to a book reading with Chris, hurt even more if Sam does it when Dean's hurt, but that's not Sam's fault. "Yeah, I mean it."

Sam pats Dean's chest. "OK. Now go back to sleep."

Sam's hand is warm, and Dean does.

When he wakes up again he's curled on his side. It takes him a moment to realize that the thing his head is resting on is Sam's leg.

"Dude!" Dean protests, feeling a scarlet flush rising in his face.

"Hey," Sam says, patting his cheek with a mock-serious expression. "Not my fault you kept trying to roll off the bed in your sleep. And the pillows weren't enough to hold you back." Sam's hand moves to the back of his neck, squeezing lightly. "You want some breakfast?"

"You went out to get breakfast?"

"Couldn't leave your miserable ass here alone, could I? I got Chris to bring us doughnuts on his way to the book reading."

"I thought you were going to the book reading," Dean says, and then he cringes at the whininess of his own voice. "You don't have to be a nursemaid, Sam. I'm a big boy."

"A big boy who doesn't know not to get into barfights," Sam says equably. "Did you really think I was going to leave you on your own?"

"You _were _going to leave me on my own."

"That was before you got your ass handed to you by a couple of locals. _Non-supernatural_ locals. Someone seems to be getting a little rusty. Or maybe it's just age catching up with you, big brother."

"Shut up."

Dean starts to push himself up. Sam helps, but instead of settling Dean on the pillows he just pulls his brother up all the way and supports him against his shoulder. Up close, Dean can see the tired cast of his features. Sam hasn't slept, not even the restless catnapping that he calls sleep. That means he's been up watching Dean all night.

That _totally _shouldn't make Dean feel as warm as it does.

"I meant it," he says, a lot more confidently now that he knows it's too late for Sam to take him up on the offer. "You could've gone." Sam scoffs, tugging Dean's head down to rest on the worn material of his shirt. It smells of smoke. "Of course you would've had to shower first. Can't go to a bookstore reeking of a bonfire."

"You want to tell me what your problem is?" Sam asks mildly. "Or are we going to have this weird conversation all day?"

"I don't have a problem. I'm not trying to compete with the Stanford geeks for your time, Sam."

Sam's arm tightens. "_What?_"

"I'm just saying –"

"You're saying _what_?"

"I'm saying maybe college boys have something to talk about that's going to go over my head, and maybe this Chris kid is smarter than me, and maybe you'd rather –"

"Dean." Sam's voice is calm, quiet, and shuts Dean right the hell up. "Don't be stupider than you have to be." Dean cringes, and Sam seems to realize he's hit a nerve, because his grip shifts in some indescribable way that turns it from supporting to comforting. "Sorry. You know I didn't mean it like that. Chris isn't smarter than you. And even if he were, it wouldn't matter to me. You're my brother."

"You wanted to spend time with him," Dean mutters.

"Yes. Because he's my friend. How is that different from you spending three nights in a row with that girl Tiffani last month?"

"Tiffani wasn't the one who played wingman when I first asked out the girl I was going to end up dating for a year and a half."

"And Chris wasn't the one who talked me through it the first time I asked a girl out _ever_," Sam responds.

"He got to see you grow up."

Sam huffs. "Don't be ridiculous. We hung out, but –"

"Yeah, you hung out." Dean intends to yell, but it's difficult to be belligerent while he's wearing Sam's hoodie and being supported by Sam's arm, so it just comes out miserable. "You thought I was the best big brother ever and then you spent four years hanging out with Chris and then…"

"And then nothing. You're still the best big brother ever." Sam says it easily, and Dean can almost believe it's true.

"Not the big brother who can do no wrong, though, am I?"

"Please. You were _never _the big brother who could do no wrong." Sam glances at Dean's face, sighs, and becomes serious. "OK. Fine. But remember, _you're_ the one initiating the chick-flick moment. This one's on you." His big hand rubs Dean's back. "It's true that it's different now. I don't think you're Batman. But that's nothing to do with _you_, Dean, it's just a consequence of me not being a kid anymore. And when you do stupid things like hustle alone I'm _going_ to call you on them. So, fine, I know you're not perfect. That doesn't mean I think you're not awesome." Dean blinks furiously. "It just means I think you're even more awesome because I see how hard you try."

"Fine," Dean rasps. "God, I wouldn't have said anything if I'd known I'd have to listen to you _talk_ for so long."

Sam isn't deceived, and his arm closes around Dean, pulling him into his brother's warmth. "So we good?"

"Yeah." Dean pats Sam's chest. "We're good."

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